


Sick Days are Made for Blues

by keiimos



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, and then i listened to a wonderful playlist and it actually got done, fooooor, i'm amazed, lets do this, so i was like, someone special
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:50:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiimos/pseuds/keiimos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a really quick fluffy thing with FrUK. Prompt was 'cuddles'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Days are Made for Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication: For a major important player in my life. Here’s to Appreciation Day—a bit earlier but eh.

He was sick. He didn’t like being sick as it usually indicated that something was wrong with his economy or his country in general, but here he was, sick as a dog. The whole disgusting mess that that entailed and as such he had a tissue in hand at all times. It was vexing, completely and utterly vexing and he hoped it would get better before that idiot came around and tried to cure him with a cheeseburger.

Americans, he thought, how did that go so wrong?

Well, no, he knew where it went wrong—but, he was sick. He deserved not to deal with idiots and annoyances—.

Just as he thought that, and exchanged one tissue for a fresh one, his door opened and someone slipped inside. Well no, not just anyone but—.

“That key is for emergencies,” and there was a touch of fondness in his annoyance and he managed to not look too grumpy as Francis shrugged off his outerwear and hung them up.

“I think letting you sit around sick for three days without telling anyone and having only recieved notice on it when I checked on things counts as an emergency,” he came over to the couch, but not before flicking on lights, and Arthur’s slight headache worsened just a bit.

“Don’t do that, leave them off.”

Francis paused for a moment, and then turned them back off, “Right, you must have a headache…what was it again…head colds for losing stocks….”

Arthur tuned him out as he rambled on and disappeared into the kitchen and then came back with a glass and held it out to him along with his fist.

He raised an eyebrow and Francis rolled his eyes, “I bet you didn’t even try medicine.”

“Never works,” but he took the glass of orange juice (that hadn’t been in his refrigerator he was sure, so those had been bags he had observed him setting down—) and the pill. He took them but only to get Francis out of his line of sight of the currently not turned on television.

“It works for a little bit. This should pass in a few more days. It’s just a minor mess. I think Alfred has it worse than you.”

“And why aren’t you sick then?”

“But mon cher, who’s to say I’m not?”

Arthur fell silent at that, and sipped his juice. He did look a bit perky and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail—he supposed that and the scarf still wrapped around his neck indicated illness.

“Alright, so…you’re here because…?”

“Oh, I wanted to see if you were worst off than me,” he said off handedly, but in a kind manner, “And you are.”

“Thanks,” and he finished the juice and pressed it back into Francis’s waiting hand, “I suppose.”

“Mhm,” and a hand to his forehead, and he flinched back because it was cold, “You’re burning up.”

“I’m sick. And it’s like a low-grade fever if anything. I’m not burning up.”

“If you say so,” and he stepped back and then headed into the kitchen. Arthur sighed, and decided to actually put something on the tv as Francis didn’t seem inclined to leave that the moment—and judging by the bags he had brought that were waiting to be dealt with, planned on staying awhile.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

He angled his head back and looked at him as his fingers found the remote, “Well…a few hours ago, I’m sure.”

“Ah, and what did you eat?”

“I didn’t sign up for an interrogation, Francis,” as he didn’t actually remember but he was sure it could not have been more than twelve hours ago.

“I’ll start something light then.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” and he settled down on the couch, and let the sounds of Jeremy Kyle wash over him (he wasn’t sure why he found this comforting—perhaps it was the knowledge that there were people with more issues than him?), and soon found himself falling asleep.

When he woke up, there was a hand tracing patterns in his hair, and the light had shifted to late afternoon. His head still hurt, his throat still ached, and he could feel his nose dripping.

“I’m disgusting,” he muttered, “And probably still contagious or something.”

“I’m already sick,” and the legs he was laying on shifted, and he felt his head getting turned upwards instead of sideways, “You drooled on me. These pants are new I hope you know.”

“Send me the bill,” but the usual heat was lacking as he had just woken up, and Francis was staring down at him like he could see him, and see inside his head. It would have scared him on some level he imagined if his hand wasn’t still rubbing gently against his scalp.

“Are you sure you can afford it with the hit you just took?”

“I’ll afford it the same way you afforded new trousers.”

A hand moved up to cover his eyes; “You’re nicer when you’re sleeping. Shush and go back to dreamland.”

Arthur reached up and removed it, scowling, “Ah yes, nicer, as I’m unable to respond to whatever you do to me.”

“Ah, yes, such as letting you sleep in my lap for several hours because you refused to move. The television shows that come on these channels,” he shook his head, “are really strange.”

“Have you seen the movies your country produces…?”

“Have you?”

And he didn’t know how to respond to that, because it was such an obvious trap—he was sure. And he was still sick, so he was a bit off his game. He sighed, and closed his eyes, “I’m hungry.”

“There’s soup that can get reheated as soon as you want to sit up,” Francis sounded amused, and for a moment, Arthur caught a small trace of a sore throat and nose in his voice.

That made him feel slightly bad, so he moved to get up, and as he did Francis leaned down and their faces were inches apart.

“What…?

Francis smiled, he was sure, before pressing their foreheads together, “Don’t seem as warm as earlier—. That’s good.”

“Told you it was low-grade.” And with that, Francis parted and allowed him to sit up and turn about properly, “I was promised soup.”

“Oui, mon lapin,” And he was standing up, and disappearing into the kitchen.

“I can understand you, you know.”

“I know.”

 


End file.
